The Moonshiner's Daughter

by Donna Everhart

  He said, “Didn’t think you could turn any whiter. Reckon I was wrong.”

  I said, “Your name is Smith. That’s what Mr. Reardon called you.”

  “Yeah, he thinks I’m Robert Smith. Name’s Martin Murry.”

  I thought back to the MM in our journal, and some of Mama’s entries.

  He pointed a finger and said, “Get on back to taking that still apart, and don’t be causing me no problems. Like her.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “No, I don’t reckon you would.”

  This parleying back and forth wasn’t useful. I was beginning to think he, of all people, had the answers I’d wanted all my life. I got up the nerve and asked the question I wanted to understand the most.

  “Was it you caused my mama’s death?”

  “I was acting in an official capacity.”

  “Which means you did.”

  He said, “She should’ve done like I told her and maybe I wouldn’t have had to fire off that shot.”

  I remembered the ricocheting noise before the explosion.

  “You caused the still to blow up.”

  He pointed at his eye, at the scars. “And paid for it too.” “Not like she did.”

  “Hell. This here cost me aplenty.”

  He jabbed a finger again toward his face. Maybe it was the liquor working on him or pent-up years of anger, but he became more disturbed as the seconds went by.

  He said, “I lost that gal I had. She couldn’t even look at me. Wouldn’t. We was getting married until I turned up like this.”

  He grabbed the jar and drank some more.

  I said, “I don’t see how killing someone is the same thing.”

  He said, “I might as well have died far as she was concerned.”

  I said, “Seems to me you got your justice. My mama’s dead and my daddy’s sitting in jail. You ask me, all you Murrys ought to be locked up, not him. He ain’t never killed nobody.”

  He started laughing, but it was more like hoarse coughing, and he abruptly stopped. He pointed at me, and made stabbing motions to emphasize each word as he spoke with anger.

  He said, “Tell you what. It ends when there ain’t no more Sassers running shine down that mountain. Like cleaning house, you could say.”

  He pointed at the still. I went back to hammering on it, letting the hatchet rise and fall, striking the sides, creating a racket. He sat back down, went back to drinking while I kept a subtle watch. I had to get away, however I could. I hoped if he ended up drinking all of that jar, it would at least make it difficult for him to run after me if I suddenly took off. I beat on the still, taking a piece from it now and then and setting it on the ground. He glared at me as I worked, and I began to think the more he had, the madder he was getting. I was wound up, anxious, and afraid. The longer this went on, the shakier I got. What if I didn’t have the strength if an opportunity came my way? I quit pounding, and wiped my forehead.

  He immediately said, “Why’re you stopping? Ain’t nobody said stop. Did you hear me tell you to?”

  I said, “I ain’t feeling good.”

  As soon as I said it, my stomach rebelled, as if I’d sent it a silent message. I retched as a spasm of nausea hit my middle.

  He said, “Puny as you look, ain’t no wonder. Get it over with; then get back to work. You ain’t done till that still ain’t no more. Then we’ll see what comes next.”

  That made me so scared, I couldn’t handle the sick I felt. I bolted to the edge of the woods, my hand clapped over my mouth.

  He hollered, “Hey! Don’t you go no further. Take care of whatever’s wrong with you right there!”

  He acted repulsed as I threw up while clenching a tree trunk. I heaved several times, then faked the need to do more as I scanned the woods, hoping I’d see a possible way to run. I would be taking a risk getting lost, but it was better than waiting to see if I would live through this. I was willing to take the chance. He’d almost finished the shine off, and was about to have another cigarette. It was now or go back to the still and lose what might be a last chance. I took off running straight into the brush, zigzagging through the trees.

  His voice was hoarse when he yelled, “Hey! Get your ass back here!”

  A shot rang out, and whizzed by me. I plunged downhill, wheezing, the rasping noise filling my ears. My legs wanted to give way and I was sure I was likely to die from this effort, and save him from having to kill me.

  Somewhere behind me came, “You’ll be sorry! There’s gonna be hell to pay,” and it rattled me he sounded even closer.

  Propelled forward by the idea he was, I scrambled up the hill, and as I reached the top, I glanced back and saw him starting up, his furious yelling echoing over the hills.

  “You wait till I get hold of you!”

  I hoped I was headed in the same direction, the way we’d come, but I wasn’t sure. Another blast and a tree by me was hit. Splintered wood coated my hair and clothes like snowflakes. I dodged thick patches of sweet shrub, and sumac. I slipped behind huge oaks, maple and birch trees, putting whatever protection I could between me and him. I prayed I’d end up somewhere I recognized. My mouth tasted metallic like I’d bit my tongue while my lungs felt as if they were on fire. The ground leveled and there was his car hidden by a copse of shrubs. I don’t know how I’d managed to get back to it, but it didn’t matter. I ran over, pulled the driver’s door open, and saw the key in the ignition. It was the first mistake he’d made since this began. I mumbled a thank-you to Jesus, got in and cranked it up.

  He showed up at the edge of the woods, and when he saw me sitting in the driver’s seat he raised the gun. He was furious, his face almost purple, his expression contorted from effort, anger, or both. I put the car in Reverse, and didn’t look at him again. I went backward as fast as I could without wrecking until I came to a clearing and backed into it. A shot dinged against the side of the car. I was afraid he would try to hit the gas tank and my end would come, just like Mama, at the hands of a Murry. I put the car in Drive and plowed over weeds, small trees, and bushes, almost hitting a huge pine tree. I followed the single set of tire marks flattening the brush. I tore down the path, sending dirt and dust into the air. I glanced in the rearview, saw he’d lowered the gun, grateful he was no longer shooting. He shook his fists in the air in a rage.

  I made it to the road, realizing by God, I’d stolen a Murry’s running car. I could’ve laughed except the realization sank in. What now? What would happen? Martin Murry had told me a lot. I wished Daddy was at home more than ever. Not only would he know what to do; his presence would have made me feel safer; all of us would be safer. I drove fast as I dared, the headlights shining on the road in front of me, occasionally catching a pair of glowing eyes. I fought nausea, swallowing over and over. There was no time to stop. I came to our road, rounded the curve, and saw the house, saw how the windows were lit with a warm, soft glow. I went up the drive. This car was so much like ours, if Mrs. Brewer happened to see it out the kitchen window, she wouldn’t think anything was wrong.

  I got out, bone weary, shaky, a rising moon before me and stars that shimmered. I stumbled across the dewy grass, climbed the back steps, yanked the door open. Popeye brushed against my legs and gave a single meow. Mrs. Brewer, God bless her, stood at the stove cooking supper. She was about to speak, and instead dropped the fork she’d been using to turn pork chops, making hot grease splash on the stove top.

  “Lord, child, what’s done happened to you? You ailing? What’s wrong?”

  I said, “We have to leave again and quick.”

  “Leave? Why?”

  I went down the hall, she and Popeye in pursuit.

  I said, “We have to go back to your house, and we have to go now. We can’t stay here.”

  “Now hang on a minute; what’s happened?”

  “That revenuer, he ain’t who he says he is.”

  Shocked, she said, “Revenuer? You saw a revenuer? Which one?”

&n
bsp; “The one out here this morning watching the house. I thought his name was Smith, but it’s actually Martin Murry. I’ll tell you about it, but we got to go. I took his car.”

  She wiped her hands on her apron, and said, “You ain’t making no sense, but all right, all right.”

  I entered Merritt’s room and he was laid out on his back, mouth open, snoring, sleeping off the effects of shine.

  I shook his foot, and said, “Merritt! Get up!”

  He barely moved.

  “Merritt! Come on, trouble’s coming!”

  It took me another two attempts before I could rouse him and then he grumbled, “Go ’way, Jessie!”

  I said, “You don’t want to be here when Martin Murry comes!”

  He sat up, and said, “Huh? Who?”

  “There ain’t time to talk, and you ain’t gonna remember it anyway; now get up! Get some clothes and come on!”

  I left him half falling off the bed, while I went into Daddy and Mama’s room. I could hear Mrs. Brewer gathering her stuff, Popeye meowing loudly, not liking the commotion. I wondered if it might be the last time I’d be in here, because if Martin Murry was like the rest of his family, we might not have a home to come to. What would Daddy think? Would he see it as my fault as well? I grabbed some clothes and shut the door, then met Mrs. Brewer in the hall. She held a paper bag and Popeye was draped over her other arm.

  I said, “I’ll drive the truck.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better for you to drive Sally Sue, leave the truck here?”

  “I ain’t got Sally Sue.”

  “But how’d you get here?”

  “I took his car,” I repeated.

  Mrs. Brewer became even more alarmed while I thought we’d already taken too much time, though it couldn’t have been more than five minutes. I tried to figure out how long it might take him to get here, if he came at all. I had no idea what he intended, only that I’d left him stranded, bested him. Merritt stumbled out of his room, his hair stuck up on end, shoes resting on top of the clothes over his good arm. He had his prosthesis, thankfully, still strapped on.

  I took his things, and said, “Hurry, Merritt, get your shoes on!”

  I took everything they had along with mine and ran outside. I threw it all into the back seat of Mrs. Brewer’s car. She came out of the house carrying the paper bag, grease stains starting to leak through.

  She handed it to me, saying, “Can’t let these pork chops go to waste.”

  Merritt clomped outside, shoes on the wrong feet. He stopped when he saw the car, gaping at it in confusion.

  I said, “Let’s go.”

  He said, “Wait, whose car is that? It ain’t—”

  I said, “I’ll tell you after we get going; come on!”

  I got in the truck and cranked it while Mrs. Brewer dumped the protesting Popeye onto the back seat of her car. I took a second and reached into my back pocket. My fingers encountered the edges of Mama’s picture. It had survived the escape and not been lost in the woods. Relieved, I followed Mrs. Brewer down the driveway while Merritt gnawed on a pork chop he’d gotten out of the bag on the floorboard. The smell from it caused a quarrel between my belly and my head.

  I said, “You ain’t gonna believe what happened after you and Mrs. Brewer left.”

  He gave me a look, and said, “I can believe just about anything way things have been lately. And whose car is this?”

  I proceeded to tell him about the man with the eye patch, how he’d blocked me in the road. I explained he was a Murry in reality, a revenuer with fake name. I dropped the bombshell about his involvement with Mama’s death. I talked fast, everything gushing out like a boiler left unattended. When I got to the final part about getting away, and him shooting at me, it sounded like something out of one of the Untouchables programs.

  Merritt chewed vigorously on the pork chop as he listened.

  After I was done, he said, “Holy cow”; then he said, “I ain’t ever heard about no Martin Murry. He’s got to be lying.”

  I said, “I know, but why would he say that?”

  Merritt said, “True.”

  In Wilkesboro, ours were the only vehicles rumbling along under streetlights and by darkened houses, like cats slinking through neighborhood alleys. Sidewalks were empty, buildings unlit, hustle and bustle absent. I wished we were back home, sitting around the table, eating, and planning the next haul. A sense of lonesomeness crept in, and settled somewhere deep inside me. At Mrs. Brewer’s house, we parked, and got out. Popeye ran onto the porch as she fished around in her bag for her key to open the door. The cat was the only one acting like he wasn’t anxious, his tail whipping about like a flag.

  “Maybe I ought to call Daddy,” I said, wondering if he’d even take a call from me.

  Probably not, but he’d talk to Merritt.

  Merritt said, “What can he do all the way down in Atlanta?”

  “I don’t know. I was thinking he should know about what’s going on.”

  The idea of Merritt talking to him was decided before I even had a chance to bring it up.

  He said, “I ain’t telling him.”

  Mrs. Brewer opened the door, and after she’d turned on the kitchen light she turned and said, “Tell me what happened.”

  I filled her in and she sat very still, hand over her mouth, listening carefully.

  When I was done, she said, “I’ll tell you who you ought to be talking to; you ought to be telling that revenuer feller, Mr. Reardon.”

  For her to say that was considerable.

  Chapter 32

  Nash Reardon’s office hadn’t changed, but he had. His tie was crooked and he was swilling coffee as if his life depended on it. His shirtsleeve had some sort of orangey-pink stain on it. Maybe ketchup. A gray haze lingered in the air, even as he lit another cigarette. I sat in the same chair thinking he needed a good swig of moonshine for himself. If what Mrs. Brewer believed was true, a little bit of it might set him straight. His eyes were red like he’d been losing sleep. I was here before school while Merritt waited impatiently in the truck. He’d suggested coming in, but I’d told him I would mess up if he did. I was already beside myself as it was. I pressed my hands into my lap, had to clear my throat before I could speak.

  I said, “I got some information,” and he put the cigarette in an ashtray and picked up his pen.

  He said, “Good. Good. I’ve been waiting on you to come back. That information you gave me the first time is one of two busts we’ve made this summer. That makes you a reliable source.”

  He mashed the button on his pen repeatedly while he waited. Mr. Reardon appeared to be under pressure, like a boiler about to blow, not calm like when he took Daddy away.

  I took a deep breath, and said, “I reckon I’m gonna give you my name this time. I have to in order to say what I gotta say.”

  I expected a reaction out of him, but he only waited for me to go on.

  I said, “I’m Jessie Sasser. My daddy is Easton Sasser, the man you and them others caught a few weeks back.”

  He didn’t seem shocked, or even remotely surprised. He only nodded, and wrote something down. My name most likely.

  I said, “I ain’t in here ’cause of that; it’s about a Murry.”

  He said, “They causing trouble?”

  “They’ve always caused trouble. You have no idea.”

  He said, “Okay. Well then, go ahead.”

  “The man with the eye patch and the scars on his face?”

  He nodded, and said, “Agent Robert Smith.”

  I nodded. “He got burned a long time ago.”

  Mr. Reardon said, “Yes.”

  I couldn’t tell if he knew more than that or not.

  I said, “He ain’t who he says he is.”

  His expression became guarded, and he replied with, “And just who is he supposed to be?”

  “Martin Murry. He’s one of them.”

  “How did you come to know all this?”

  “He’s bee
n watching our house—”

  “That’s not out of line, considering.”

  I said, “He told me himself.”

  “How’d he come to do that?”

  “I was driving Daddy’s old running car. Can’t no Murry stand anyone else hauling liquor on Shine Mountain. They’d been trying to get a hold on it for years.”

  Mr. Reardon got up and began to pace around the room. “Were you hauling?”

  “No!”

  Maybe that was too loud, too guilty-sounding.

  I shifted on the chair. “Of course not. I told you before, I don’t lay claim to it.”

  “It tends to be a family thing, like with them. I’m beginning to think it’s why you came in here the first time. A retaliation of sorts.”

  I said, “It wasn’t that.”

  I was getting flustered. I had to get him back around to why I was really in here.

  “It was my own daddy I came in here to tell you about, only I got scared and told you about the Murry still instead.”

  “Inform on your father? Why would you do that?”

  “On account of what happened to my mama a long time ago. I’ve always thought she died on account of making shine. I didn’t know until a couple days ago I had it wrong. It was Martin Murry who caused her death.”

  He sat back down, and said, “Your mother was killed by my agent who isn’t who I think he is?”

  I nodded. “I was four years old, but I remember it. She was standing by a still. It blew up and I never knew why until that agent you think is Robert Smith told me only yesterday he’d shot at it. She was burned. It’s how he lost his eye, got them scars of his. I been blaming Daddy all along.”

  He said, “I’m sorry, Miss Sasser, but this is all sounding a little far-fetched.”

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “Let’s back up a minute. What happened after he stopped you?”

  “He made me go with him.”

  “What reason would he have for doing that?”

  “That grudge he’s carrying.”

  “What happened then?”

  “He took me to our last still, told me to tear it apart. Said he was ‘cleaning house.’ He had a gun. I figured I wasn’t going to get out of them woods.”